


In the dawn light.

by gnsmk



Category: DOGS (Manga)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnsmk/pseuds/gnsmk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Badou had woken to find Heine sitting on the blanket he'd huffed a laugh and scratched through pale hair to behind Heine's ears, then yelped in pain when his fingers were near twisted from their joints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the dawn light.

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on FF.net, about three years old]

Dawn finds them in the same position each morning Heine stays. With the sun barging through the threadbare curtains that hang limp before the window he lounges in what little warmth it has to offer. There's a blanket beneath him, separating pale skin from scratchy carpet, and his bare back rests against the bed frame as he stares idly at the wall before him. 

He tends to spend at least an hour like this; watching the shadows crawl across the walls as the sun rises, and picking at the wool from the colourful creation beneath him. Badou's colourful creation, made in a fit of boredom between jobs when the red head chose to see how easy knitting was compared to sewing. A simple stitch turned out to be easy' but time consuming, and Badou lacked the patience to make it any larger than a rag, declaring it barely fit for a dog to sleep on before casting off and casting it away. 

The first time Badou had woken to find Heine sitting on the blanket he'd huffed a laugh and scratched through pale hair to behind Heine's ears, then yelped in pain when his fingers were near twisted from their joints. 

But the purple wool stays soft no matter how many times his naked behind graces it in the early hours of the morning, and it's better than the stained carpet, so Heine doesn't really mind. He toes the edges straight each night before he sleeps, ready for morning and nothing is said. 

Whilst Heine is an early riser, Badou is not. He stays sprawled in bed, partially covered by the sheets and always moves into Heine's spot as soon as he's vacated it. His hair is an unruly mess, flung over the pillow and his face, the loose strands fluttering as he breathes. The sign that he's woken up, unable to ignore the light in the room any longer, isn't a mutter or a sigh, no change in breathing to show he's conscious. There's no loud yawn, or over dramatic stretch, but a hand flopping out and reaching for a cigarette. 

In all the night's Heine's stayed over, he still hasn't figured out if Badou is truly awake when he does this, or if he's so used to it he can do it in his sleep. 

He moves his gaze from the wall to watch the freckled-dusted hand pluck a cigarette from the open packet and bring it to parted lips. The hand drifts back into view for the lighter, with more purpose now Badou has truly woken, but pats about blindly as Badou's single eye remains determinedly closed, he refuses to acknowledge the morning before his first cigarette. 

Most mornings Heine just sits and watches the lazy patting, easily spying the cheap plastic lighter and watching as long fingers drift closer then away again. Sometimes, on the rare occasion he's feeling kind, he'll knock the lighter under the searching hand and get a grunt of thanks in return as the other man finally lights up and inhales. Only then does Badou kick the sheets away, rolling onto his back and allowing smoke to stream from his nose before sitting up.

Heine tips his head back at this point, against the grimy mattress to watch Badou rub the gunk from his eye with one hand, and kneed his scar with the other. Well worn curses about tight skin are muttered around the cigarette, it jumps in his lips and ash drops down the freckled chest, such a regular occurrence it's ignored. 

To the complains, Heine will suggest some skin product or another, maybe something Naoto must use. Badou will snap his reply, scattering ash about again as he grumbles that he "ain't no girl" and if the white haired man and his wolfish grin dare bring up the position Badou was in the night before they'll be rewarded with a pillow to the face.

Occasionally Heine will reflect on how mundane his morning's can be, and sometimes the irony as he sits on his blanket as a dog might await his master. They both know Badou holds no such position in the relationship, and the hand running through white hair is more a caress than a ruffle as the red head finally rises. Heine just likes to remind him sometimes, that's all, as he elbows his way into the bathroom and leaves the other man spluttering his protests and insults as the door shuts on him.


End file.
